


two for joy

by picketfences (OnyxSphinx)



Category: Turn (TV 2014)
Genre: Complicated Relationships, M/M, ben gives caleb the hugs he deserves, they love each other but it's...........complicated
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-19
Updated: 2020-09-19
Packaged: 2021-03-07 17:55:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,394
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26541772
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OnyxSphinx/pseuds/picketfences
Summary: a few times Ben offhandedly mentions getting a farm after the war, and one time Caleb takes it seriously and they actually do
Relationships: Caleb Brewster/Benjamin Tallmadge
Comments: 5
Kudos: 15





	two for joy

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ProblemWithTrouble](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ProblemWithTrouble/gifts).



> no i'm not about to stop losing it over this show any time soon

The wind howls outside of the tent; and Ben shivers; rubbing his hands together and blowing on them in a vain attempt to warm them up. He lost feeling in them hours ago—it’s only by the grace of God that they haven’t turned blue or, worse, black, he thinks, miserably, and crosses his arms, shoving his hands beneath them.

“You think Washington’s working with good old Georgie?”

Caleb’s voice, cracked and hoarse, makes Ben look up to find the other man ducking through the tent flaps, face and ears ruddy red from the stinging cold winds; snowflakes clinging to his beard. Ben clears his throat in an attempt to speak in something more than a whisper. “Close the flaps behind you before I catch my death, Brewster. And those are treasonous words—careful Bradford doesn’t hear them.”

“Bradford?” the other laughs. “Nah, Bennyboy, he’s more likely to turn on Washington himself. Though, pardon the  _ treasonous words, _ with the weather, Washington’s bound to loose at least half a’ the men.”

“Don’t be pessimistic,” Ben hisses; and then, more quietly: “perhaps a third, if something isn’t done.”

The other flashes a grim smile. “Exactly,” he says, and sits down on the cot next to Ben. The heat of his body has the hairs on the nape of Ben’s neck standing up; and he barely resists the urge to shift closer, to seek the heat out.

Caleb takes the decision from him; scooting closer, pressing thigh to shoulder. “You’re warmer than usual,” Ben says, suddenly; and then instantly regrets it with how the other’s expression twists into a wide grin.

“What, as opposed to how warm I usually am when we’re pressed together like sardines?” he retorts. “Careful, major, or rumours might fly.”

“You’re the only one making the rumours fly,” Ben replies, face hot; because Caleb has a point—because as much as Caleb stands too close, hugs too long, grips his arm, his hand, his shoulder too intimately, Ben does the same two-fold, and unlike Caleb, it’s not innocent; it’s the furthest thing from.

Caleb shrugs. “I’m a sailor, Major, it’s in my nature. Haven’t you heard about what goes on on whaling boats? Not a woman in sight for leagues an’ leagues.” His voice is warmer now; they’ve turned in towards each other, breaths puffing out, smokey-white, into each other’s faces.

“Will you go back to whaling?” Ben asks, suddenly. “If the war ends, I mean.”

“If?” Caleb raises a brow at him. “I thought you were th’ optimist of the two of us.”

Ben jerks a shoulder up. “Not even I can deny that conditions like these may leave the Continental army weakened. But,” his eyes flick up to meet Caleb’s, “that doesn’t answer my question.”

Caleb shrugs; the motion fluid even in the cold. The whaler has a sort of grace to him—always has. Ben’s not sure if he envies it, or is intoxicated by it. Or both. “I might,” he says. “Might jus’ keep on the London Trade.”

Ben raises a brow. “You don’t like the London Trade,” he says; and Caleb lets out a huff.

“I don’t  _ like _ plenty a’ things, Bennyboy—but it lines the pocket, doesn’t it? ‘Sides,” he adds, “it’s not like there aren’t worse things I could be doing—I mean, I could be a bureaucrat, or, or—a cabbage farmer.” His lips curl; and Ben finds a matching expression building on his own face.

“Come, now,” he says, “cabbage is important.” But there’s no conviction to it; he doesn’t in the slightest envy Abe his profession. “Though farming itself is a nobel pursuit, I’ll have you know. My forefathers were farmers.”

“And look what they begot! —a Yalie!” Caleb shakes his head in mock sympathy. “Were I them, I’d be silenced by the shame! To think—you could have been a perfectly good farmer, but instead, you took to the books. Though,” he adds, gaze sweeping down Ben’s form, “the image of you in but a pair of breaches, a waistcoat, and an undershirt...perhaps it’s better, if only for the ladies’ sakes, that you did.”

Ben’s cheeks are practically aflame now. “Shut up,” he mutters, and shoves Caleb in the side. The goes careening off the cot, falling flat on his back, cackling the whole way down. Ben instantly misses the warmth.

“Maybe I’ll be a farmer after the war,” he says, in a desperate bid to stop Caleb from looking up at him, to force him to stand, to re-engage in the conversation. “Buy a nice piece of land out by Oyster Bay, raise some chickens and corn. You could come along,” he offers.

Caleb rises—finally—from off his arse. “Maybe I will,” he declares; and retakes his place by Ben’s side, shoving his cold hands under Ben’s cloak.

Ben squeaks, though he’d not admit it with a gun pressed to his head. “Brewster! You’re freezing!” He shoves the other’s hands away. “Here, if you’re so cold—” he tugs his cloak out from where he’s sitting on it so he can drape it over the both of them; the thick wool holding the heat between the two of them so that, after a few moments, Ben almost has sensation in his hands back.

Caleb shakes his head; lips twitching. “Glad I got you as my Major, Tallboy—any other man would let me freeze.”

“I’m not any other man,” Ben retorts, and pulls the other a bit closer, pulling the cloak tighter around them, and relishes the heat the closeness brings. Caleb’s hand’s bumping against his thigh, the motion both mundane and intimate in such dizzying juxtaposition Ben thinks he might need smelling salts were he of the fairer persuasion. As it is, though, he’s a major, and so, he doesn’t let it get to him, or at least, tries not to.

Caleb snorts. “Thank God for that,” he says. “There’s no other man I’d want to follow behind, anyway.”

_ And there’s no other man I’d want by my side, _ Ben thinks; but lets the silence grow between them rather than say it.

* * *

Lee forces them to retreat. 

Ben’s blood burns red-hot at the order—he risked his friends’ lives to prove Lee a traitor, has gone this far, and Lee retreats. It’s all he can do to reign in a snarl and a quick flash of a pistol when Bradford smirks at him.

“General Lee?”

“Ben?”

Washington and Caleb’s voices cut through the air in tandem; the former, heavy and resigned; the latter surprised and startled. “You were to press their ranks, General,” Washington says. “What are your men doing here?”

Lee blusters. “Sir, I—there was some confusion—”

“There still is.” Washington’s expression is unreadable. “Major Tallmadge—with me. Lee, flank us.”

“Sir,” Ben murmurs; and shifts in his saddle, easing his mount to the General’s side; the dappled grey mare whickering lightly as she bumps noses with Caleb’s darker stallion. 

“You alright?” Caleb murmurs, as they get ready to fight yet again; and Ben offers a tired shrug. The anger’s drained out of him, leaving nothing but cold, hollow exhaustion. He’s not sure how he’s going to fight like this. He wants to lie down and sleep for a year.

Instead, he reaches forward and pats his mare’s cheek; feeling the hot exhale of her breath. “I’m about to charge into battle,” he says; and then, quieter, “I’m fine, Caleb. Just frustrated at Lee.”

The other grimaces. “Aye, an’ I can see why. Bastard led you right into a trap, didn’t he?”

Ben’s saved answering by the first shot of the canons; and they’re off; charging into the field. It becomes a blur, as it often does; he thinks he feels blood spatter, hot and wet, against his cheek; and Caleb is shooting grapeshots at the enemy; felling ten at a go.

Finally, it’s over; and they’ve snatched a stalemate from the maw of defeat; a victory in and of itself for how they were mislead to start with. It’s enough that he didn’t die, that Caleb didn’t die.

He’s standing here, now, by Ben’s side; a hand on his stallion’s flank. They’ve both cleaned up since the initial battle; and Caleb’s hair is fluffier than usual; the curls dark and luscious in the early afternoon light, and Ben wants to run a hand through it.

Instead he says, in as even a tone as he can manage, “We ought to do something if the war ends. Useful, I mean,” he clarifies. “I’m not joining you in your endeavours into privateering.”

Caleb snorts, and plucks an apple from his sack, feeding it to his mount. “Pity,” he says, “you’d make a good one. Though, what exactly makes you think it would be  _ we _ rather than  _ I? _ ” His tone is teasing, though, so Ben doesn’t think he’s overstepped any boundaries.

He shrugs. “It’s always been we, hasn’t it?”

“True enough,” Caleb concedes. “Well, then, Tallboy, what’s your brilliant idea?”

“We should go away. After the war, I mean,” he clarifies; and shrugs a shoulder. “I don’t know, it’s just—a fleeting fantasy, I suppose. One I think of every so often when we’re in harsh conditions. Makes for a nice bit of imagining.”

Caleb quirks a brow. “Harsh conditions?” he parrots; and his lips quirk as well. “Did you already forget about th’ winter in Valley Forge? —now that’s why  _ I _ call a harsh condition.”

“You lived on a whaleboat for years,” Ben points out. “For you, harsh conditions are just the physical.”

“Ah, well—not so for you, then?”

Ben’s lips purse; half against his will; he’d rather not be revealing himself so much just now, all exposed as they are here in the woods. “No,” he says. “it’s...no, it is. Ah, I don’t know.” He shakes his head, trying to dispel the thoughts cluttering it up. “I’m just...I’m tired.”

The look Caleb gives him is sharp; like that of a hawk. “You’d better not give out on me, Tallmadge,” he says. “You’d better stay strong in spirit.”

“What, not going to tease me about being gawky?”

“You took care of that when you went to Yale,” Caleb dismisses. “Came back built like Michelangelo statues are.”

It’s Ben leveling the sharp look now. “Since when do you know what a Michelangelo is?”

Caleb’s lips twist into an unreadable tilt. “I know lotsa’ things you think I don’t.”

_ Clearly, _ Ben thinks; but all he says is, “Well, I hope you know how to get the knots out of your mount’s mane—Washington won’t be pleased to have you ride in to camp with burrs in his coat and mane.”

“I’m not going anywhere near old Georgie,” Caleb retorts. “That’s for you, remember? Intelligence Major and all.”

“Ah, then you’d better get to it posthaste—two horses require twice the work.”

“Oi!” Caleb protests; indignant and beautifully alive; Ben realises it now, for the first time, truly—they are alright; they are alive.  _ Caleb _ is alive, here next to him; complaining like someone’s crotchety old grandmother; painfully endearing, somehow, because it’s him and not some wizened old crone. Ben finds himself smiling for the first time since before the battle as Caleb complains all through helping Ben pull the burrs from his mare’s coat.

They do manage to get all the burrs out; and a good thing too, because Washington comes to his tent personally to congratulate him and Caleb.

Ben finds himself tripping over his words at the General’s praise; feeling like a young child before an exasperated schoolmaster hearing his pupil foul the lines he ought know by heart; by his side, Caleb’s wide grin is palpable; his stance loose and carefree.

“At ease, Major,” Washington finally says; apparently assuming it’s just post-battle nerves. “I’m congratulating you, not signing your execution.”

“Sorry, sir,” Ben manages to eke out; and he swears that he catches an amused glint in the General’s eye.

“Sir,” Caleb cuts in, “Ben’s probably too shy to ask it himself, but can I request a day of rest for him, as his lieutenant? He fought so  _ bravely _ and  _ valorously _ today—surely it’s deserved? —he is one of your best majors, after all.”

Washington’s brows raise just a fraction; before he hums; and says, “Yes—yes, I believe you have a point, Lieutenant Brewster. Major Tallmadge—a day of reprieve, for you to gather your wits about you is in order, I believe.”

Ben does his best to glare at Caleb without looking at him; and barely makes a sharp dip of his head in assent; a mumbled, probably unintelligible, “Thank you, sir.”

“Damn,” Caleb comments, after Washington exits the tent with a flutter of his cape, “who knew all it took to shut Benjamin Tallmadge up was a bit of praise?”

Ben’s throat works. “You’re  _ such _ an arsehole,” he manages, finally; thought not as darkly as he’d like; and Caleb’s grin widens.

“Only to my friends.”

* * *

If Ben has to sit in this insipid room with its insipid officers and insipid press and its insipid, garish decorations for one moment longer he’s going to lose it. He’s going to have a full on breakdown. He can fight through battle with a bullet in his side and scream his rage into the enemy’s faces without flinching or tiring, but this?

This is—this is insipid. He hates it. He’s not even being questioned, that’s all the General and his aide de champs, but Ben’s stuck here, with Scott and a handful of other generals and majors, and a smattering of lieutenants, listening to it all.

One of the newsmen is asking Washington whether or not he thinks the losses were too severe and Ben is going to snap, he’s going to yell  _ They’re so much better than they could have been _ —

There’s a hand on his arm; the heat of skin near his. “Hey,” Caleb murmurs into his ear, “are you alright, Tallboy?” 

Ben presses his eyes shut; takes a deep breath; unable to reply. Caleb gets the hint; squeezes his arm; pulls away. “Major,” he says, more loudly, “can I have a word, please? In private? It’s about the men—”

He nods; rises. “Pardon me, gentlemen,” he says, as quietly as he can; and slips out after Caleb.

Caleb leads him into the gardens; the sting of the air like tiny daggers in his lungs as he drags in gasping breaths. Caleb’s hand has stayed on his arm the entire time. He thinks he’s got tears in his eyes.

“Hey, hey, it’s alright,” Caleb soothes, “just—just breathe with me, Ben, breathe with me, Tallboy, just...” his words fade into a mantra; and Ben does his best to follow the instructions he’s giving; focusing on the warmth of his hand through the fabric of his coat and the rattle of his breath and the quiet hum of the air around them.

Finally, he manages to draw in a breath that isn’t pained. “Thank you,” he says, hoarsely. “I think I would have lost my mind in there. Too many people packed together, asking questions, I just—” he stops; not sure how to explain it.

“Yeah, I could tell,” Caleb says; a tinge of worry to his tone. 

“I don’t want to go back.”

The statement startles them both; Ben doesn’t even realise it’s spilled past his lips for a few beats, and once he does, he’s backtracking. “Yet, I mean, not yet, I’ll have to go back and—”

“No,” Caleb interrupts. “No, stop. Tallboy, you don’t want to go back—so don’t.”

Ben bites back a half-hysterical laugh. “What, desert? Now? Caleb, I can’t just— _ do _ that.”

Caleb shakes his head. “No,” he says, again. “No, but you can resign. You’ve served admirably, you’re a major in good standing—hell, Ben, you  _ deserve _ it, if nothing else. Washington will understand. He’s always talking about wanting to go back to Martha—surely he’ll not begrudge you your desire to go back to peace as well.”

“I...” he hesitates. “No,” he admits, “no, I suppose not.”

“Okay,” Caleb says. “Alright, then. We’ll resign tomorrow.”

“We?”

Caleb gives him a strange look. “You didn’t think you were doing this on your own, did you? I said I’d follow you when we enlisted, Tallboy—I meant it.”

“Oh,” Ben murmurs. “Er—” he gives an embarrassed cough; a bit overcome; blames it on the cold air still stinging his throat, desperate for that to be it. 

“What are we doing afterwards?” Caleb asks; like he’s enquiring about the weather, or something as mundane. “We could go back to Setauket—you could teach again. Go back to your books, have the children call you  _ Master Tallmadge _ as you set them to their Latin work.”

“Actually,” Ben says, hesitantly, “I was wondering... _ am _ wondering, I suppose, if there’s any farmland for purchase around here?”

“We can ask the innkeeper—he ought to know,” Caleb responds. “And so long as we don’t try and ask Woody for advice, we ought t’ be fine. And so long as we don’t try and grow just cabbages.” 

They don’t, probably, need to grow a crop, strictly speaking; now that the United States has started to gain a half-decent footing, they both have pensions that would be individually sufficient, and, combined, will be enough to purchase a small piece of land—perhaps something that’s been abandoned for a while. It’ll need some fixing up in that case, but that’s fine; they’re both capable young men.

Ben feels a tentative smile tug at his lips. “Alright,” he says. “It’s decided, then.”

“Aye,” Caleb agrees, and squees Ben’s arm. “It’s decided.”

He squeezes Ben’s arm; and, unceremoniously, Ben finds himself dragging the other into an embrace; the curls of the lieutenant’s hair against his cheek, soft and smelling of seasalt. “Thank you,” he murmurs; maybe too quietly to hear, because Caleb doesn’t respond; but he does drop his arm to Ben’s waist and pull him closer, presence comforting; and Ben lets his eyes slip shut, just for the briefest moment, and thanks God for this—that they’re here, still, alive, even now; that Caleb didn’t die whaling, and Ben didn’t die when Rogers shot him, or when Gamble did. 

* * *

Ben jolts awake from his restless slumber, hand already halfway to his hip in search of a flintlock before he realises the hand on his shoulder is Caleb’s. He unclenches his jaw, trying his best to untense. 

Caleb must realise what’s going on, because he draws his hand away. “We’re here,” he says, not looking at Ben; leg still jumping like it was an hour ago when Ben passed into an uncomfortable sleep—anxious, even Ben, who cannot often tell what other are feeling, can tell. 

He wants to reassure the other, to tell him Ben is anxious, too; that this is unprecedented, that Ben doesn’t know what the hell they’re doing either; but he’s not sure it would be well-received, right now; so he remains silent on the matter; and instead opens the carriage door and peers out over the empty land. “Is that the house?”

The coachman—who Ben had forgotten about, in all honesty—is the one who replies. “Aye. It was a Tory farm years ago, but it’s been unused since the war started.”

“Ah,” Ben says; and turns to Caleb. “We’ll have to do some work on it, it seems.”

“Mm.” Caleb clambers over Ben to get out of the carriage, and squints up the hill to the house—tall, two stories, perhaps, but not very wide; painted a greying deep blue with white trim; and Ben thinks it might have once been a very handsome house, but the years have worn on it; slats coming off, covered in moss and lichens and cobwebs; the land around it overgrown with low-growing shrubs and such. “At least I know you ain’t half bad with a hatchet or hammer.”

Even now still Ben has to fight the embarrassed flush that rises on his cheeks, remembering the day Caleb took him out into the woods and finally managed to drill into his head proper woodcutting and hammering—“I can’t keep watching you hit your hands,” he had said, firmly, and led Ben away from where he was trying to help Samuel patch up a hole in the wall. Several long, sweaty hours later, Ben had collapsed against a tree after finally managing to cut a log in two and nail the two pieces together properly.

“At least  _ I  _ know you won’t scraper off and leave me to do it all on my own,” he shoots back; and Caleb’s lips twitch.

“Sirs? Your satchels?”

Ah; right; the coachman. “Right, yes,” Ben says. “We’d better get those.”

A few moments later, they’ve gotten their satchels out of the carriage, and they begin the trek up the hill to the house. “You know,” Caleb muses, as they walk, “when we joined up, I never would have thought we’d end up on a farm.”

“Neither would I,” Ben admits; because, in truth, he had expected to die—had been prepared to, had readied himself for it. That had only changed when he realised that there was a spy within their ranks—after his entire patrol of dragoons had been slaughtered by the Queen’s Rangers. “Though...” he hesitates, before speaking. “I’m glad that of all those I know, I’m here with you.”

For a moment, he’s terrified—has he revealed too much? Will Caleb know?—but then it passes as Caleb huffs, lips curling up into a smile. “Aw, don’t go an’ get all weepy on me, Tallboy,” he teases, “I’m sure you’ll change your tune in a few weeks.”

“I shared a tent with you when we were lieutenants,” Ben retorts drily, “I think I’ve seen all the depravities of your person by now.”

“Hey!” Caleb protests; but then stops; sputtering silently for a few moments before conceding by virtue of silence. Ben finds himself smiling slightly.

Finally, they reach the top of the hill; and Ben fumbles in his coat pocket for the key. Caleb, impatient as ever, sighs, stepping forward, slipping a quick hand under Ben’s coat and retrieving it with deft fingers, and unlocks the door.

“You could give a pickpocket a run for his money,” Ben says, weakly, feeling light-headed from the near-skin-to-skin contact—only a waistcoat and undershirt between Caleb’s hand and his chest, where he can feel his heart thundering.

Caleb snorts. “Don’t be dramatic,” he dismisses, “you could have taken my hand off in a trice if you wanted to long before I managed to get the key out. You just trust me.” He braces his shoulder against the door when it refuses to open by hand, and it gives a groan, finally falling open and revealing the dusty, dimly-lit interior, and the whaler steps over the threshold with an easy confidence. 

It’s stated with a calmness that belays the depth of it—for Ben does trust him; more than anyone else, as much as that terrifies him. So he just sighs and follows Caleb in and says, “It’s late—we had better find a room with a bed and eat something.”

“I’m sure whatever you’ve got in that satchel of yours is leagues better than military rations,” Caleb says. “I’ll go check upstairs, see if there’s any beds.”

Ben hums. “Alright,” he says, “I’ll look down here, then.”

As it turns out, there’s two bedrooms, both upstairs; but only one has a bed. “It’ll be just like old times,” Caleb says, in an attempt to cheer him up, “plus, with the lost slats, it’s probably a good idea to sleep in the same bed anyway, or we might freeze.”

That, Ben has to concede, is true—it’s late autumn, now, and the nights are cold and windy, and they only have with them two thin blankets. Body heat will help keep away the chill some, at least until they manage to go in to town and procure thicker blankets, and build another bed.

Caleb, who’s caught site of the parcel Ben took out from his satchel while the whaler was busy upstairs, asks, “What’s in there?”

“Some dried venison, cheese, and walnuts,” Ben replies. “It’s not much, I’m afraid, but it’s what I could find on short notice.” Their decision to buy the farm was impromptu in the most literal sense of the word—Ben had seen the add the day before, and they had purchased it that very evening, and packed their meagre supplies and bidding good day the next morning to the innkeeper.

“Vension?” Caleb raises a brow.

“The innkeeper had some extra I convinced him to sell for a lower price,” Ben explains. “I thought you might appreciate it—venison was always your favourite on the rare occasion that it was available when we were children.” He ducks his head; feeling suddenly embarrassed.

There’s a beat; and then Caleb says, quietly, “You didn’t have t’ go to that trouble.”

“Well, I have, so you might as well eat it,” Ben says; refusing to look at the other; and breaks a piece of the cheese off and bites into it, trying to focus on that instead of the thoughts racing through his head.

Caleb hums. “T’would be rude to refuse,” he agrees, and plucks a strip of jerky out of the parcel, and then offers it out to Ben. “You should have some too,” is all he says by way of explanation; and Ben, finally allowing his gaze to raise from the floor, catches an edge of vulnerability to his expression.

He swallows. “Thank you,” he says, and takes it.

It goes well with the cheese, and the walnuts’ bitterness offsets the spice and salt somewhat. The floor isn’t terribly comfortable, being hardwood, but Ben’s had worse; and it’s nice to just sit and eat with Caleb for the first time in months—when they were staying in the inn, meals were a public affair, and the bustle of patrons around them destroyed any sense of intimacy their rooms may have granted them.

“We can go into town and purchase some seeds tomorrow,” Caleb says, “and then get to working on repairing the house.”

Ben hums. “That’s a good idea,” he agrees. “I’ll look for a hatchet or axe, too.” There’s quite a few hardy-looking trees in the woods out behind the house, and two or three should be good enough for what they need.

Caleb gives a noncommittal grunt, and plucks up the last piece of jerky, along with a bit of the cheese; and then, when he’s swallowed, yawns widely and blinks a few times. “It’s not even that late,” he complains.

“No, but you’ve been running on a deficit,” Ben points out. “We both have. Up you get.”

“Is that an order,  _ major? _ ” Caleb asks; eyes twinkling; and Ben scoffs.

“I don’t want to be woken in the middle of the night by you trying to crawl into bed beside me,” he retorts. “Now, up you get, Brewster.”

Caleb does; protesting a bit as he does so; but Ben ignores him, digging out the blankets from his and Caleb’s satchels, along with their night-shirts; and ascends the stairs. Caleb follows a few moments later, grumbling still, this time about how Ben’s making him carry the satchels.

Ben shakes his head; lips curling slightly; and sets the blankets on the bed, waiting for Caleb to catch up; and holds out his night-shirt to him; turning to put his own on.

“You don’t have to turn,” Caleb says. “I mean, I’m not. We’ve seen each other in far worse before. Not, mind,” he adds, “that I’ve ever looked bad.”

“Shut up,” Ben groans. “It’s the principal of the matter, Caleb.” He’s glad his back is still turned—his cheeks feel like they’ve caught aflame as he remembers, distinctly, each and every time Caleb’s referring too.

“I nursed you back to health after you fell into the Delaware,” Caleb continues, “trust me, there’s not a single inch of you that I  _ haven’t  _ seen trying to get you warm.”

“ _ Caleb! _ ” Ben hisses; and his face is definitely aflame now. “You—!”

Caleb laughs. “Oh, don’t act like a blushing virgin,” he reproaches, “you’ve seen me in as little.”

“Unwillingly,” Ben mutters; which is true enough—had it been up to him, the situation would never have happened. As it was, though, he’d had to help Caleb peel off his bloodied clothing, stopping every few moments, hearing Caleb’s pained hisses as the movement aggravated the wounds from Simcoe’s torture. 

Caleb senses his discomfort; because a moment later, his hand’s against Ben’s shoulder. “I was talking about the time I fell into the mud,” he murmurs; but his tone’s got an apologetic lilt to it; and after a beat passes, he adds, “I’m fine, Tallboy, see?”

Ben turns; taking in Caleb, lit softly by the single candle he brought up with them; painted, almost; and Ben looks him up and down; confirms to his mind that Caleb’s right, and it just fine. And he is—the scars aren’t gone, but they’re no longer bleeding through his shirt like they were for the first month after. “Right,” Ben says, quietly. “Yes, of course you’re just fine.”

Caleb sighs. “You made sure I am, alright? You did good, Ben. I promise. Stop blaming yourself.” And then: “Come on, let’s get you into bed—it’s late, that’s why you’re worrying. You just need to sleep.”

“It’s not that late,” Ben protests, but lets Caleb lead him over to the bed; lets him settle them down, facing each other; lets him pull Ben’s hand up and place it against his chest, so he can feel the beat of the whaler’s heart.

“See?” Caleb murmurs, “I’m alright. You did that, Ben—you made sure of that, remember?”

Ben nods mutely; face gaze fixed on where the other’s holding his hand; short, calloused fingers against his skin. “I’m alright,” Caleb murmurs again. “Go to sleep, Tallboy. I’m right here. I’m alright.”

He keeps speaking; repeating the same words; and eventually, Ben drifts off, the echo of Caleb’s voice and the press of his skin against Ben’s, the comfort of his presence, following after Ben into his dreams, like a kinder version of a ghost.

* * *

The next morning, Caleb’s there as promised; but in the night, Ben’s shifted away from him; turned his back on him in his sleep; and for a few moments, he panics; afraid that something’s happened before he registers the weight and warmth of Caleb’s arm thrown over his torso and relaxes slightly.

The sun’s just started to rise, but it’s barely peaked the horizon, and the light shining through the windows is a pale, robin’s-egg blue. The air is cold, and Ben shivers as he slips out of bed to pull on his clothing.

They don’t have any horses, so if he wants to get to town and back in time for breakfast at a reasonable hour, he’ll have to start walking now. Thank God town isn’t too terribly far away.

It’s not a very large town, though, and so not many people are out and about. He slips into the marketplace; finds a stall selling food that he knows Caleb will be willing to eat—some bread and some fresh apples, and he manages to procure some butter, too.

It’s odd to be out and about in civilian clothing; he’s so used to wearing his military blues, and being conspicuous, but he finds he likes the anonymity it offers, even if the food and blankets are a bit more pricey out of uniform.

When he gets back, Caleb’s pacing the living-room; one hand worrying the hem of the shirt he’s thrown on; and his expression morphs into surprise when he sees Ben. “You’re...back,” he says, dumbly; like he hadn’t expected that; like he had expected Ben to just up and disappear in the morning. Ben’s heart breaks a little at that.

“Of course I’m back,” he says; and it comes out rougher than intended; and Caleb’s face settles into something new.

“‘Course,” he repeats; wryly: “like an old dog that doesn’t know better. Or a wife with a faithless husband.”

“Don’t joke about this,” Ben says, sharply—because it is early yet and it’s supposed to be a happy morning but instead here they are, and Caleb is acting like Ben would be better off without him. Caleb cocks his head.

“Joke about what, Ben?”

The question—loaded, searching—has Ben fumbling for an answer. “Don’t joke about... _ this _ ,” he manages, finally, because how the hell is he meant to put it? He’s known him all his life, and has had this, this  _ thing _ in his chest when he looks at him for half as long at least and last night they fell asleep facing each other and surely that means something. It has to mean something.

“Then tell me what you  _ do _ want me to do,” Caleb fires back; all hot fire and bluster but Ben knows, knows it’s covering up something else; he just isn’t sure  _ what, _ yet.

“I want you to not brush it off, to not—” he stops; and then, again: “just—don’t joke, please, Caleb, I don’t know if I can stand it. Not when you joke about us.”

“I’ve never joked about that,” Caleb snaps; and takes a step forward; tilting his head up; defiance; his sleep-softened gaze hardening. “I make sure you’re alright, I make sure that you’re not too shaken, that you’re not off kilter—hell, I would die for you, Ben. What part of that’s a joke?”

Ben draws a sharp breath. “I don’t want you to die for me,” he says; and then: “I didn’t know that was for me.”

“Of course it was. What, you thought I was doing it because I’m—selfless?” He laughs. “Tallboy, I’ve never been selfless about you. Selfishness is a sin, and I’ve committed it time and time again because of you. For you. Everything I’ve done since I’ve been old enough to remember it has been for you.”

He’s a single step from Ben now; and Ben thinks there’s a spark of fear in his gaze—vulnerability he rarely gets to see. He swallows. “If you mean what I think you mean...”

“If I do?”

“If you do, then I’ve loved you for as long as I knew what that meant.”

Caleb’s face twists. “Don’t say that.”

Ben frowns. “What, that I l—”

“ _ Don’t. _ The last man who said that to me left me to the hounds.”

“Caleb—”

The other closes his eyes. “I’m just—Ben, it’s in my bones, alright? It’s too big. You don’t understand. I don’t  _ expect _ you to understand. Just don’t pretend you’re alright with it, ‘cause I know you’re not—hell, you shouldn’t be.” The last bit is spoken bitterly; and Caleb’s mouth is twisted tight, tight as a dulcimer, ready to snap.

“You don’t get to decide that for me,” Ben refutes; clutching his purchase tight. “And you don’t know what I think is alright. I...” he hesitates. “I got another blanket so we won’t be so cold at night. One blanket—I don’t want another bed.”

“You don’t know what you want.”

Ben gives a sharp exhale. “Yes, I do. I want you, Caleb, alright? Stop trying to convince me otherwise. It’s not going to work. I’ve bought a farm with you, and if nothing else, I want  _ that _ with you. I’d like more, too, if you’re willing.”

He reaches out; settles a hand onto Caleb’s shoulder. Caleb’s eyes flick open; meet his gaze; guarded, cautious. Ben clears his throat. “Tell me how you feel. Please. So I can understand.”

There’s a moment of silence; stretching so long Ben thinks Caleb’s going to just shrug off his hand and turn and leave; and then, finally, he says, “I’m...burning alive and you’re calling the flame beautiful.”

“Alright. Is there anything I can do to help quench the fire?”

“No.” 

It’s spoken matter-of-factly; and Ben tries to hide the disappointment; but apparently not well enough, because Caleb adds, “At least, not yet. Maybe in time.”

“Alright,” Ben says. “Well, we’ve got time.”

They stand there, like that, for a long time; and then Ben says, “I got butter, too, and bread. And apples.”

Caleb’s face softens; relief. “A breakfast for kings,” he jokes. “I gathered some wood for the fireplace while you were out—we can light a fire in the fireplace and sit in front of it, if you want?”

“I’d like that,” Ben agrees; and offers his hand to Caleb, who takes it with hesitance; leading him over to the fireplace, and starting a bire.

They sit pressed side to side, the contact gentle and comforting; the blanket draped over their shoulders; and after a while, Ben finds his hand has slipped into Caleb’s; and Caleb’s head has settled onto his shoulder; lips against his neck.

“You’re kissing me,” Ben says, belatedly; and feels Caleb tense. “I’m not complaining,” he clarifies. “Just questioning why you’re focussing on my neck instead of my mouth.”

“Ah, well, maybe it’s because your neck talks less,” Caleb retorts; somewhat weakly; but raises his head and tilts his chin; lets Ben close the distance and claim a short kiss; hums against it, slow and somewhat hesitant.

_ I love you, _ Ben thinks, but doesn’t say; and just wraps his arm around the other instead. Caleb might not be ready to hear it yet, but maybe one day he will be; and then Ben will hold his hand, and tell it to him earnestly, and make him believe it in true, like he believes spring will follow winter and a harvest will grow anew.

“I can hear you thinking,” Caleb says, when he pulls away. 

Ben shrugs. “Yes,” he says; and then: “it was about you, though. Us, I mean.”

Caleb tenses slightly again. “Oh?”

“Just thinking about how we’ll have to plant the harvest soon,” Ben says. “If we want the crop to come in properly, I mean. We’ll have to tend to it.”

“Ah,” Caleb murmurs. “I suppose we will.”

This time, he’s smiling slightly; and he settles his head back on Ben’s shoulder. Ben finds himself smiling too; warmed both by the glow of the fire and the man by his side.

**Author's Note:**

> you can find me at [major-721](https://major-721.tumblr.com/) on tumblr


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